


Spring's Use

by PasdeChameau



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: And wild tonal inconsistencies, Bitch in the zoological sense of the word, But lbr Francis doesn't actually mean it, Heavy-handed metaphors, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, This is just a mess of clichés, Though there's definitely some animus behind it on Francis's part, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warning for brief mention of animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 11:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PasdeChameau/pseuds/PasdeChameau
Summary: James and Francis get a dog. Then they get several more. Initially written for the "new beginnings" carnivale prompt, but delivered extremely late; it's so silly that I waffled a lot about actually posting it.





	Spring's Use

The dog washed up upon their doorstep during a late autumn storm: a wet, rangy terrier mix with a coat the sickly auburn of rotting apples and a tail slung low between its legs—a cautious comma rather than the usual, eager question. It sat patiently beside the entryway as Francis made several trips outside to fetch firewood, only attempting admittance when he moved to close the door behind him.

“Go on then,” he said, shooing ineffectually at the thing, but the animal only looked up at him with damp eyes. Meanwhile, James—drawn to the noise—emerged from behind him and knelt down beside the dog.

“Poor boy,” he cooed, scratching at its chin. “We’ll find some something for you, never you fear.” He turned towards Francis meaningfully. “A ratter, wouldn’t you say?”

“James—” Francis said in warning.

“Well,” James huffed, “I didn’t say anything. We can’t very well let him starve, though. We’ll feed him and send him on his way.”

That evening, James placed a cut of mutton outside the door, charmingly arranged on the household’s best plate. The dog returned the next day, and the day after. Within the fortnight, it was dozing comfortably on the hearth rug.

 

Their new bunkmate, it transpired, was female. James took to calling her Roxana, over Francis’s protests.

“It’s a bit grand for a mangy stray."

James, lounging on the floor beside the creature, placed his hands over her ears in mock horror. “Why, how can you say that, Francis? She has the manners of a duchess. Only think how discreetly she begged entrance, and—“

James never finished his sentence; the duchess had vomited on the sleeve of his dressing gown.

 

“That bitch of yours—“ Francis began over breakfast one morning.

“Roxana,” James corrected absently, eyes never shifting from his newspaper.

Francis grunted. “I told you you’d come to regret that name. If she’s a lady, I’m the fucking Archbishop of—“

James at last glanced up. “Really, Francis, I don’t know what you’re driving at, but—“

“She’s in a family way,” Francis cut in, waiting with no small measure of delight for James’s consternation.

But James, to Francis’s dismay, only barked that quick, clapping laugh of his—perhaps the only scrap of military efficiency he had not yet shed—and ruffled Roxana’s fur where she lay resting on his lap. “What a jezebel you are, my girl!” The dog nosed at James’s inseam in response, and he laughed once more—louder than Francis could recall hearing since their return to England.

Still, the notion of a litter of puppies tumbling out onto the parlor floor unnerved him. “James—” he all but mewled, as Roxana shot him a coy look from underneath her brows.

James rolled his eyes, still toying affectionately with Roxana’s ears. “Yes, yes. Of course we shan’t keep them—not all of them, at any rate. They might prove useful, depending on the father’s pedigree.”

Francis glowered. “More useful than that one, I hope,” he ground out. “She hasn’t yet caught a single rat.”

 

James’s composure began to splinter as Roxana’s belly swelled.

“But what shall we do?” he complained, pacing before Francis’s armchair and running his hands madly through his hair, “When the time comes?”

Francis trained his eyes upon his book. “Give them away, I suppose. That is, assuming you’d rather not just drown the lot.”

“Francis!” James snapped. “How could you?”

Sighing, Francis stuck a finger between the leaves to mark his place. “Well—”

But James interrupted. “In any case, that isn’t what I meant. I meant—” he hesitated, lowered his voice. “You know—during. The birth.”

Francis laughed—unintentionally at first, then wholeheartedly as James, hair rumpled and face flushed, mustered an aggrieved air. “She’s not actually bloody royalty, James,” he finally managed. “It’s not as it is with women. She’ll go off and find herself a nice little hidey-hole and out they’ll come, easy as you like.”

“I suppose.” James regarded him doubtfully, then brightened. “Perhaps we might ask the local doctor if he knows anything about whelping bitches.”

Francis slammed his book shut. “Absolutely not. He’ll think you’ve been chasing the village girls and that that’s your gentleman’s way of putting it.” A smirk threatened to upend the anxious lines of James’s face; Francis wagged a threatening finger in his direction. “And you’ll be sleeping alone for a month.”

 

All the same, when Roxana did slink off to her nest, Francis found himself at loose ends. James, thankfully, had gone to town, but Francis had heard the dog’s whimpering behind the stove, and crouched down to find her twisted in upon herself, coiled tight as a screw. The sounds she made seemed hardly to issue from her throat; the moans rose off her whole body like steam, the noise unbearable in the quiet house. Painfully, Francis settled himself beside her, knee snapping sharply as he extended his legs. Then he ran his hand down Roxana’s body in long, measured strokes, and waited.

 

By the time James returned, four wriggling pups were jostling for pride of place against their mother’s belly. Roxana reclined in the midst of this clutch, casting occasional alarmed glances at her nursing children, but looking, on the whole, inordinately satisfied with herself.

James, of course, fell to petting her immediately and fretfully, only thinking to help Francis to his feet once several moments had passed.

“Blasted animal,” Francis groaned as he dusted his trousers off. “I’ll not be able to bend that leg for a week.”

James’s eyes had gone soft and melting in the fading afternoon. “Francis,” he said quietly, “thank you”—then darted a kiss to Francis’s cheek.

There was something green about the touch—light and fresh as May grass—and it echoed sweetly in Francis’s chest. “Well,” he allowed, “I’d hardly turn a lady in her condition out onto the street.” At James’s smugly joyous look, however, he hastened to amend his words. “Though how she got herself into such a scrape I’ll never know. Her every rib was standing at attention when we took her in; I’m amazed she had the spirit for it.”

“Are you?” James asked mildly, and Francis pressed his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic combines two things I struggle wildly with as a writer: happiness and the past tense. Every so often I feel the need to practice, so thanks to y'all for suffering the consequences.
> 
> Roxana is of course named after Alexander the Great's Bactrian wife, in an homage to Victorian Orientalism. As for the title, it's loosely drawn from Victor Hugo: "If people did not love each other, I really do not see what use there would be in having any springtime."


End file.
